


Through the Smoke

by GuileandGall



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Battle of Denerim, F/M, Left Behind - Freeform, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 17:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12686529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuileandGall/pseuds/GuileandGall
Summary: In war decisions are made that not all will agree with or like.





	Through the Smoke

Smoke billowed in the distance. A sure sign that the armies of Ferelden were hours behind the Darkspawn force descending on Denerim. Perhaps it was a trick of the wind, but keen hearing made the elf certain he could hear screams on the whipping breezes that rushed through the trees and stirred up the dust kicked up by more than a thousand feet trudging through the Bannorn. They’d marched for hours, some of the force marched for more depending on where their journeys began—an army built of elves, dwarves, mages, and men of the Bannorn conscripted to the service of Ferelden by the remaining Grey Wardens to replace that force lost at Ostagar. A few miles outside the city with pillars of black smoke rising behind her, Queen Anora rallied the troops, praising Cyna Mahariel as a stand-out among the Grey Wardens, a true daughter of Ferelden.

Zevran snorted a quiet laugh. He knew the truth. Cyna hadn’t been born in the borders of this land. Her people had migrated here after.

The blond noble, whose own father was a reason for her husband’s death and the ravaging of the land, rallied the troops with a cry to avenge Cailan. It drew vibrant cheers from much of the human contingent. But what struck home more sharply among the crowd, himself included, was her cry to show all Grey Wardens that the people of Ferelden remembered, and honored their sacrifice.

What Zevran recalled keenly more than any of the queen’s words was the way Cyna Mahariel, “an elf raised to the ranks of the Grey Wardens” as Anora put it, shied away from the praise the armored blond woman tried to lay about her shoulders. She and Alistair stood to the side stoic and calm, knowing their place was at the front of this force, not only because of their station as the last two—no, three now that Riordan finally arrived—remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden, but also as a beacon to rally and inspire the troops. Their fight, their blood, their determination would encourage the others to the same—that was the thought in times like this, Zevran told himself. The leaders must be at the front, an example to the others. Yes, that was the logic. It felt foreign to him.

He worked in the shadows, in the quiet. Not out in the open. Even so he watched the spectacle for what it was, a show. Anora would be nowhere near the fighting, he was certain. His place was amidst the army, with the Grey Wardens’ company, as he’d been for months now. A single Crow could do little to excite or prop up anyone’s bravery, he knew. But none of that force looked to him, their eyes were on the wardens, on Cyna.

Staring at her brought back near memories. She had visited his room the night before in Redcliffe. Neither could claim to be well rested for the battle ahead, but they were still primed for the conflict that was unavoidable. Even so, worry spun a tight web around Zevran’s spine. Both last night and as the army closed on an embattled Denerim, he could sense something in her. A tightness in her body, a distance in her eyes. He could not put a finger on it, but he could feel it. Despite his certainty, he did not inquire, then or now. He did not push. In truth, he feared knowing the answer behind why they spent the entire night in one another’s arms, drinking deep from the cup of lust and love.

It was easier to ignore the reasons. Easier to rush the gates of the city and cut a swath through the darkspawn horde to their tainted Old God than it was to face the truth that he somehow knew in his heart.

Or so he thought.

The pillars of dark smoke that had been defined at a distance became nothing more than a swirling mass that moved to blot out the sun as gouts of flame licked into the sky belching forth more. It turned the sky unnatural shades of red streaked with gray. At the gates Riordan rejoined the company Cyna commanded. Told her of his plan to draw the dragon to Fort Drakon, then suggested splitting her band—the ones that had traveled with her so far—and leaving half of them to defend the gate from any darkspawn reinforcements.

Zevran saw it in her eyes even before she nodded her agreement. She would leave him behind no matter how he might argue that his place was at her side.

As always, the warden was pragmatic in her decision. A keen strategic mind lay behind those mesmerizing green eyes, even so, he wished he could affect her decision.

“Alistair, Wynne, and—”

The Crow wanted to hear his name. Here her request him to remain at her side even to the last moment of this battle. He stepped forward even as Mahariel called another’s name.

“—Morrigan. With me. Sten, I need you to lead these men. Hold the gates. Do not let the darkspawn pass.”

She shared a word with Leliana. Then Dog, the beast sensing she was leaving him behind too, nudged at her thigh. She scratched his clipped ears and nuzzled its forehead, speaking to it in Dalish. Dog barked a few times, and there was a soft laugh from her in reply. “Be valiant,” she told the hound before she stood again.

When her gaze fell on him, Zevran couldn’t disguise the hurt in his heart. “So, it is here that we part ways,” he said, his inflection almost turning the statement towards a question. He stepped toward, her taking her hand. It was the wrong time and the wrong place to broach the subject, but he needed to know. “You do not with me to stand by you in the end?”

“Zevran.” Her bare fingers traced his cheekbones. “I … I don’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

“Oh, now you worry about my health?” he laughed. It forced the corners of his mouth upward, but only long enough to make their fall into a frown more obvious.

She mirrored it, closing the scant distance between them.

“In truth,” he told her, “for the chance to be by your side I would storm the Dark City itself. Never doubt it.”

“I know,” Cyna replied.

Her reaction surprised him. The velvety softness of her lips brushed against his, the kiss deepening quickly.

“Whatever happens, Zevran,” she said against his mouth as her vibrant gaze met his, “I love you.”

“Cruel to the end,” the told her. Fear cracking through his heart and his voice.

For so long, he thought his faith in her knew no bounds, but as she slipped out of his arms and turned away he worried. Feared that this might be a challenge she may not be up to task for. He watched her, every single step, as Cyna walked into Denerim. Darkness wrapped around his heart and squeezed when she looked back over her shoulder at him before disappearing into the smoke with her bow in hand. She left him. Left him to wonder, and worry.

Would he ever see her again? Would he ever know the feel of her hand on his cheek? Her lips on his?

In an instant, a panic set in. He hadn’t paid enough attention. He couldn’t recall how her lips felt against his. Taking a step for the gates, he felt a thick hand against his chest.

“She needs us to hold this gate,” Sten stated.

Looking up into the sharp features of the hornless qunari warrior, Zevran felt hollow. The words rang true. Safe was a relative term, he knew. While she would not take him with her to face the dragon, Zevran and her other companions were only slightly safer than those she led to the fort. A far-off screech signaled all the fighters at the gate that more darkspawn approached.

Zevran met Sten’s gaze again and nodded once. She needed him here. He would not let her down, even if this might prove his final act of devotion. As he turned, daggers now in hand, a look of determination etched itself across the Crow’s features. As long as he drew breath, no more darkspawn would enter via this gate. He would not disappoint her.

He would hold that gate until he saw her again, even to his very last breath. That she could be certain of.

“Hold!” Sten called out to those companions and soldiers as the force rushed toward them.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from @katalyna-rose. Thank you so much for this. Though I’m not sure I managed to capture the extra angst.


End file.
